oor was opened, Billy
heard faintly, but unmistakably, the moaning wails of two infants.

"Mrs. Stetson says if you will please to help Mr. Henshaw with the
babies," stammered the maid, after the preliminary questions and
answers. "I've been in when I could, and they're all right, only
they're crying. They're in his den. We had to put them as far away as
possible--their crying worried Mrs. Henshaw so."

"Yes, I see," murmured Billy. "I'll go to them at once. No, don't
trouble to come. I know the way. Just tell Mrs. Stetson I'm here,
please," she finished, as she tossed her hat and gloves on to the hall
table, and turned to go upstairs.

Billy's feet made no sound on the soft rugs. The crying, however, grew
louder and louder as she approached the den. Softly she turned the knob
and pushed open the door. She stopped short, then, at what she saw.

Cyril had not heard her, nor seen her. His back was partly toward the
door. His coat was off, and his hair stood fiercely on end as if a
nervous hand had ruffled it. His usually pale face was very red, and
his forehead showed great drops of perspiration. He was on his feet,
hovering over the couch, at each end of which lay a rumpled roll of
linen, lace, and flannel, from which emerged a prodigiously puckered
little face, two uncertainly waving rose-leaf fists, and a wail of
protesting rage that was not uncertain in the least.

In one hand Cyril held a Teddy bear, in the other his watch, dangling
from its fob chain. Both of these he shook feebly, one after the other,
above the tiny faces.

"Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush," he begged
agitatedly.

In the doorway Billy clapped her hands to her lips and stifled a laugh.
Billy knew, of course, that what she should do was to go forward at
once, and help this poor, distracted man; but Billy, just then, was not
doing what she knew she ought to do.

With a muttered ejaculation (which Billy, to her sorrow, could not
catch) Cyril laid down the watch and flung the Teddy bear aside. Then,
in very evident despair, he gingerly picked up one of the rumpled rolls
of flannel, lace, and linen, and held it straight out before him. After
a moment's indecision he began awkwardly to jounce it, teeter it, rock
it back and forth, and to pat it jerkily.

"Oh, come, come, pretty baby, good baby, hush, hush," he begged again,
frantically.

Perhaps it was the change of position; perhaps it was the novelty of the
motion, perhap